


botched

by spookykingdomstarlight



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Action & Romance, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Banter, Ben Solo Takes After His Grandmother, Ben Solo is Senator of Naboo, Canto Bight, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Kissing, M/M, Mentions of Padmé Amidala Surviving, Missions Gone Wrong, Pre-Star Wars: The Force Awakens, Senator Ben Solo, sudden attraction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-02 09:56:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15794151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookykingdomstarlight/pseuds/spookykingdomstarlight
Summary: No son of Leia Amidala’s is going to come to harm while Poe’s there to stop it. Not even if he hates the asshole.





	botched

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kylohen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kylohen/gifts).



Poe gets this itch in the back of his mind every time he comes to Canto Bight. The sights, the sounds. The people. His instincts go into high alert no matter that he hasn’t yet met more trouble than he can stand. That’s bad for a pilot. Bad for anyone, really, who wants to keep their wits about them.

A false sense of threat, after all, is just as powerfully dangerous as a false sense of security. Any misread of a situation is dangerous. And on Canto Bight, dangerous can so easily slide into deadly. He can normally keep it in check. But today? Today he can’t shake the bad feeling that’s dogged his step ever since he stepped into the famed Casino, so important it doesn’t even need a real name. Just Casino. Like it’s the only place in the galaxy that matters.

If something doesn’t go wrong, he’s gonna be pissed. And if something does go wrong, well. He’s still gonna be pissed about it. There’s no getting out of Canto Bight without a little disgruntlement, he supposes, so it really shouldn’t make a difference, but this time it feels more personal.

He pulls his chrono from his pocket. The bastard he’s supposed to meet is ten minutes late already. Which means he’s dead in a ditch somewhere, stripped of every trinket he possesses, or someone’s about to make an attempt on Poe’s life. Which, nah. Poe’s not in the mood. They don’t need this particular shipment of munitions that badly and Poe’s really only here as a favor to Leia.

Even from across the room, it would be entirely impossible to miss the sartorially minimalistic Senator of Naboo currently earning the ire of an entire table of sabacc players. In the midst of so much glitz, the mere curl of gold at the collar of Ben Amidala’s black tunic makes for a striking contrast. Each face that Poe can see is dark with unhappiness, eyes filled with malice and glaring provocatively at the man in question. That also makes the senator contrast quite strikingly with his surroundings.

Sounds about right for a man in Canto Bight with a stack of chips as large as Ben’s got.

He doesn’t even look like it matters to him.

A rich Senator of Naboo fleecing a bunch of even richer assholes on an artificially maintained pleasure planet. Leia must be so proud.

She definitely worries.

As Poe counts up the truly astronomical sum of money Ben currently has at his disposal, a sick feeling turns his stomach. He could fund just this trip alone three times over with what Ben’s throwing away. How much safer could the Resistance be if Ben came on board, whether covertly or not?

Leia had told him not to engage, but he’s gotta be honest. If this trip is a wash anyway, he might as well get something out of it. If it’s only the satisfaction of telling Ben he’s a snotty princeling who hides behind his grandmother’s skirts, so be it. Ben experiencing even a modicum of shame for continuing to trust in the New Republic Senate would make this trip worth it.

Poe still doesn’t understand how Leia’s the only one of the old guard who’s managed to see sense. Even a glorified stick jockey like Poe had come to see the truth of it and he hadn’t been in any position to know the full truth when he’d joined the cause. How people like Ben could be right in the middle of it and continue to beat their heads against useless duracrete walls is entirely beyond Poe’s understanding. Especially when there are good people out there risking their lives to save them from their own folly.

Shoving through the throngs of tipsy revelers, he approaches the table. Not a single bodyguard in sight. Does the man not have a single ounce of sense in his head? Anyone might want to kill him here. And if a First Order operative could get anywhere in the galaxy and blend in, it’s here. The only place better for them on that score is Maz’s Castle on Takodana. But at least she has protective measures in place to ensure, well. As little conflict as possible.

It doesn’t always work for her either, but at least she tries.

He feels it again, that very bad feeling. It raises the hairs on the back of his neck. This time, he heeds it and does a quick sweep of the room. There are a pair of beings in a shadowy corner of the casino floor who are staring pretty intently at Ben, too stiff and out of place to be here for anything other than a job.

Huh. Well. That’s as much confirmation as Poe needs.

A droid rolls past him, a platter of champagne flutes balanced on the end of a spindly appendage. Poe swipes one and sips from it, does another sweep of the room. It barely notices the loss of such an expensive glass of alcohol and pays him no mind even with the theft of it. It’s too loud to hear the carbonation, but he imagines the sound of bubbles fizzing and popping anyway. They certainly tickle his nose when he takes another drink, small enough that he can continue with his half-baked plan.

Ben’s gonna kill him. But if it saves his life, that’s a risk Poe’s willing to take.

No son of Leia Amidala’s is going to come to harm while Poe’s there to stop it. Not even if he hates the asshole.

If he’s wrong about this, at least he’ll have accomplished something. Even if it does end with a restraining order and charges filed against him.

“Excuse me. Excuse me, please,” he says, enunciating his words a little to clearly and making himself go a little wobbly on his feet. He grin sloppily at everybody he so very carefully avoids bumping into. Taking another small sip, he slips between Ben’s sabacc table and the table next to it. _Where the fuck is your security,_ he thinks, surprised, just in time to trip into Ben’s back and tip the very cold, almost full glass of champagne down the collar of Ben’s tunic.

The glass falls from his hand—is thrown, but nobody will have noticed that—and rolls across the plushly carpeted floor. “Oh, stars. I am so sorry,” he slurs, loud, pressing enough of his weight against Ben that Ben is pushed into the table, chest knocking the truly comical stacks of chips over. Ben’s back is warm, but Poe doesn’t have time to notice that because he’s more focused on wrapping his hand around Ben’s elbow and whispering into his ear. “I’m with the Resistance.” More loudly: “I am just so—here, let me.”

The rest of the table laughs politely at Ben’s misfortune and the nearest one sneaks a couple of Ben’s fallen chips into his sleeve. Fuck, but Poe hates this place. “Too bad, Amidala,” a silver-clad woman says. “Let’s hope your winnings are still here when you get back.”

They, every one of them, knows they won’t be.

“Yeah,” Ben says, and Poe’s gotta hand it to him, he keeps his shit together in the face of unexpected circumstances. Even though his muscles bunch and flex, presumably with fury and adrenaline, his voice remains even, cool, very nearly indifferent as he stands, backing directly into Poe in the process. “Fuck you, too, Lovey.”

“Charming,” she replies, turning her attention back to the game. “And I believe this hand is mine now that our resident cheat has exited the game.”

The only reason Poe doesn’t lose his balance when Ben turns and practically shoves him is because Ben catches his wrist in an iron grip, hard enough to send a jolt of pain up Poe’s arm. Though there’s a brittle, close-lipped smile on his mouth, his eyes are hard, his anger crystallized in them. It’s clear Poe’s in for it now, but as long as Ben gets out from underneath the malevolently watchful gaze of the people who’ve got Poe worried, it doesn’t matter.

He somehow manages to let Poe lead them away without making it seem so, a smart move for a guy who’d so studiously avoided reading the room until this point.

“Really, I’m so sorry,” Poe says in a normal tone of voice, contrite, maybe a little loud. “I’ll pay for the dry cleaning. I’m not usually that clumsy. This is so embarrassing.” His hands brush at Ben’s shoulder. For anyone who cares to look, Poe’s just a solicitous worrier who’s trying his best to remedy a situation and failing at it. Ben, probably not pretending, is not impressed as Poe herds him toward the perimeter of the room and closer to the exits.

Managing a peek over Ben’s shoulder, he sees the pair he’d spotted earlier move closer. They are trying very, very hard not to look conspicuous.

They aren’t succeeding.

At least Poe _is_ right. So if Ben stays mad at him, he’ll have an explanation to offer.

Leaning close, he slips his arm around Ben’s waist. Already he’s concocting a story for them in his mind, one that’ll need to be told physically. It’s probably clear enough to the people following them that Poe’d engineered that spill, but Poe wouldn’t mind buying himself a little bit more time before they get fully suspicious of his motives for doing so. “Don’t freak out,” Poe says, intimate, as he slips his arm around Ben’s waist, settles his hand low on Ben’s back. He turns his head again. Only to better speak into Ben’s ear, of course, plastering a mischievous smile on his mouth. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches another glimpse of Ben’s tails.

They’ve stilled, conferring with one another. Poe stops, too, and pushes Ben into the wall. He hopes this just looks like an assignation. Or an attempted one. If he can get the guys following Ben to take it easy, even if only for a few minutes, relax and believe they hadn’t been blown, he can get Ben through this.

All Ben has to do is go along with it.

“That is not what I’m doing,” Ben answers, brittle with anger. But there’s no concern in his tone, none at all. He is all measured control. Terrifying in his way. The Senator of Naboo is notorious for his fearlessness. Apparently that translates to his private life as well as his professional one. “Take your hands off of me.”

“Turn toward me a little, just enough so you can look back out of the corner of your eye.” To Poe’s utter surprise, Ben actually does this, bringing their mouths within easy kissing distance. His breath is slow and even, caresses the skin of Poe’s jaw. It’s intimate enough to send a shiver down Poe’s spine, make him remember how long it’s been since he’s been this close to another person. The fact that it’s Ben Amidala who’s managing to have this kind of effect on him just means he needs to take Leia up on one of her offers of shore leave. Clearly he needs a break. Their gazes connect for a brief moment and Poe tries to be encouraging, but Ben’s skates past almost immediately and he does exactly as Poe had asked.

Poe isn’t disappointed. He’s not.

“You do know I can handle a pair of goons with no sense of discretion, right?” Ben asks. “Do you even have a blaster on you?”

“Yeah, Senator. I’m not a total idiot.”

“You might want to get it out.” Ben smiles, grim and superior, like he’s happy shit is about to hit the fan simply because it does prove that Poe’s a total idiot. “Because they’ve just seen through your cunning ruse.”

Sighing, Poe reaches behind him. He’s got a special holster snapped into the back of his trousers, keeps a small, powerful little pistol secure against the small of his back. He hadn’t wanted to use it, but if he has to, he has to. “Who’s fault is that?” Poe snaps, checking the charge automatically. “You could’ve played along.”

“Mmm. Maybe. If I wanted to permanently damage my reputation.”

“So instead you’d risk death?” And Poe doesn’t quite hiss the question; he doesn’t quite ratchet his voice up; he doesn’t let his heart rate climb because this fucker is even less risk averse than Poe.

“Eh.” Ben rolls a shoulder and there’s a fire in his eyes that so perfectly matches both Leia and Han that it nearly steals Poe’s breath away. “I’ve risked worse.”

As though the gods take Ben’s words as a taunt, the peal of blaster fire rings out and there’s suddenly dust and plaster falling into Poe’s hair and eyes. He would have sworn he felt the heat of the bolt, too, but he’s pretty sure that’s just his imagination working overtime. “Shit,” Poe says, ducking and shoving at Ben. “Shit. Move it, will you?”

It’s a testament to the priorities of Canto Bight’s elite clientele that no one seems overly concerned about shots being fired. No. Nope. They save the police for the things that truly upset the casino’s patrons. Like hapless tourists getting caught up in schemes larger than themselves and making a mess of things for the richest amongst them. Or people making it big and rising above their stations at the gaming tables. That’s the kind of shit that draws official attention. Not this.

Did he mention he hates Canto Bight? Because he does. A lot.

Before Poe can get too caught up in that train of thought, Ben grabs him by the collar and drags him around the corner just as another shot whizzes past. They both break into runs, Poe keeping a little back since he’s still the only one with a weapon out and honestly if someone has to go down today, better Poe than a senator who might still, one day, be of use to the cause. Tossing a look over his shoulder, he squeezes off a shot at the first guy who rounds the same corner, catches the bastard in the arm.

When he shouts and spins away, Poe can’t say he’s not a little bit pleased. Also, relieved that the shot hadn’t gone wide and struck a civilian instead, even if any one of the civilians he might strike probably deserves worse.

He’s even happier when neither of them round the corner again. Even just a few moments’ reprieve could mean the difference between Poe merely getting his ass court martialed and Poe losing his life entirely.

“This was a stupid idea,” Ben shouts, unhelpful.

“Yeah,” Poe calls back, “I’m starting to get the picture. See if I ever try to help you out of a tight spot again, huh?”

“I can only hope I’m that lucky!” Because Poe isn’t looking, still too focused on the end of the hallway, waiting for one or the other to emerge, he’s not paying attention when Ben stops. And so Poe finds himself connecting with the solid wall of muscle that is Ben’s back, still damp from the champagne. He almost falls, more surprised than hurt, but Ben’s reflexes are good, his hand catching hold of Poe’s and dragging him down another hall.

It’s not the most clever of misdirections, but it’s a start. If there’s another hallway somewhere around here, they might stand a chance of losing the people trying to kill them.

The casino might as well be deserted for how many people they pass as they run. Every last one of them must already be out on the town. Absolutely incredible.

Poe chalks it up to an unexpected bout of good luck. At least until alarms begin to screech and lights in the ceiling that Poe hadn’t even noticed begin flashing red and white and back again. At first, Poe thinks the police have finally caught on, but when equally invisible doors begin to open at even intervals in the hallway, out of which some very well-equipped droids trundle or float, Poe realizes why they’d managed to escape.

“This is not a drill. For your safety, please proceed in an orderly fashion toward the casino floor,” the droids drone in unison, at least ten of them, probably more. “The Canto Bight Fire Department has been alerted and will be here shortly. You remain in this sector at your own peril. The penalty is prosecution under statute 153.84.D. Please advise. This is not a drill.”

Someone pulled the fire alarm.

That’s just. Great. Really, really great. “What’s the penalty under statute 153-whatever?” Poe asks.

“Death,” Ben answers. His response is so dry that Poe’s sure he’s lying. “If you can’t pay up and you don’t have diplomatic immunity anyway.”

Then again, this is Canto Bight. That sounds about right for the place.

“You’re not a diplomat.”

“No,” Ben says, “but I can buy my way out of trouble.”

Poe takes a step forward.

The nearest droid releases a long protuberance from its round body. It might look like a cam droid, but then lightning arcs from the end of the thing. Poe’s no dummy. If he takes another step, he’s gonna end up drooling on the floor.

“We can’t stay here,” Poe says.

“You got any better ideas, genius?”

Well, the hallway does have a bunch of rooms in them. Then again, chances are good that would just get them locked in a room while Ben’s pursuers hunt them down. So, in fact, Poe doesn’t have any better ideas.

And he’s certainly not feeling like a genius.

Ben groans in disgust and rolls his eyes.

“Subclause 8A of statute 323.A5-3 states that elected officials on official state business can override certain local laws if they interfere with the course of said business. Does that rule apply here?” Reaching into his pockets, he pulls out an identchip. “Senator Ben Amidala of Naboo.”

The droid floats closer to inspect the thin slab of crystal. The implement, crackling one last time with electricity, retracts. “Override statute 153.84.D. Be safe, Senator. It is believed there is a fire on this level.” The alarm doesn’t dim however and the droids go back to sounding their warning, but when Ben grabs his hand and pulls him further down the hall, the droids don’t stop them. And they don’t threaten to electrocute them. They walk slowly at first, which is fine with Poe as they slip past the droids. He still can’t believe Ben’s bullshit worked.

After a few moments, he starts getting antsy, wants to get moving again. It won’t be long until it gets figured out they’ve managed to escape and Poe would like to put as much distance between them as possible before that happens.

“Any chance we can…?” Poe says, almost yelling so he can be heard over the sound of the alarms. He gestures at everything, unable to actually find what he’s looking for: an exit. Next time… next time he’s leaving Ben to fend for himself. “I’ve got a ship in the spaceport. We can—”

“No,” Ben says. “Absolutely not.”

“Well, if—”

“No.”

Poe tries to cross his arms, finds his hand is still grasped in Ben’s. Yanking it free, he scrubs at his bicep, doesn’t let himself miss the warmth of Ben’s palm in his. It’s ridiculous, he knows, but he also can’t stop himself from having that flash of realization either. “I hope you have a good idea, then.”

“I have an idea,” Ben replies, pointing toward a door at the far end of the hall. “I don’t know if it’s a good one, but since you don’t seem too fussed about quality, I’m not going to worry about it.”

Once they make it past the last of the droids, the noise abates some, finally reaching a level where they can talk normally. Reaching out, Ben stops him almost at random.

“My suite,” Ben says, sliding his identchip across the scanner installed next to the door. It forces him to press his palm against the scanner, too. The glint of a cam is visible at about eye level. At least some place in this damned building is secure. Poe ignores the obvious question and settles for being glad they’ve caught a break.

The inside is every bit as nice as Poe would expect from Canto Bight. Plush furniture in the latest style, no doubt the most comfortable that can be engineered by science and technology, in the most appealing colors, creams and pale blues, silver accents everywhere. Ben doesn’t seem to notice any of it as he rummages through his stuff. It’s less than Poe might have expected for a senator, just a single large traveling case, but he is diligently pulling it apart anyway.

Poe has no idea what he’s searching for. And he doesn’t ask. 

Too uncomfortable to keep looking at Ben, he turns away to inspect the rest of the room, finds himself just as uncomfortable as he pokes his head into the open ‘fresher where the bottles of hair product and soap and lotion Ben prefers are sitting. It feels like such intimate information to have, private.

 _Ridiculous,_ Poe thinks, turning away and slipping his hands into his back pockets. Now that he thinks about it, the ceiling is just about the nicest one he’s ever seen. 

“Ha,” Ben says, pulling Poe’s attention back where he doesn’t want it to be. Small metal keys click and clack in his palm. Closing the case, he jerks his head toward the balcony. “Come on.”

Poe can’t help but follow. 

“Is that a good idea?” Poe pulls aside the translucent drapes and catches an eyeful of a shuttle, clearly a transport that will neatly slot into a larger ship. It sparkles in the bands of harsh, constantly roving lights of Canto Bight. It doesn’t even have a scratch on it, sleek and silver, the leather interior gleaming black. Poe desperately wants to fly it. “Tell me you’ve got permanent departure clearance.”

“I might have permanent departure clearance.” He’s got a smug look on his face as he says it, eminently punchable in its full glory. But despite how much more sensible that would be, Poe can’t say he wouldn’t mind kissing the arrogance off that twist of his lips instead. Would make for a fun chance of pace anyway. And a nicer way to work off the adrenaline coursing, acid-sharp, through his body.

Ben’s not so bad really.

“You might be my hero,” Poe says. The joke falls from his mouth before the rest of him thinks it through, but even once it’s out, he’s fine with it. Not least of all when a delicate blush decides to stain his cheeks and his only response is to clear his throat as he leads Poe onto the balcony. He crouches near the front of the shuttle. His fingers are clever as they disengages the various locks and alarms that keep the damned thing safe.

Poe shakes his head. He definitely has no reason to think the thoughts he’s thinking.

As though Ben can sense them, too, he goes still, spine straightening. His head whips around and his eyebrow cocks itself high on his forehead. His mouth falls open. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

It’s times like these that Poe realizes hanging out with Force-sensitive people kind of sucks.

Now Poe is the one blushing, though he can at least commend himself on not taking those thoughts to their natural conclusion. “You could at least pretend to be a gentleman.”

“You’re the one—!” Ben scoffs and shakes his own head in turn. “There are men following us who want me dead and you’re daydreaming about holding my hand?!”

That is, well, it’s the most generous interpretation of Poe’s thoughts that Ben could’ve picked and Poe is one-thousand percent willing to cling to it. Saving face is way more important than admitting he’d been more focused on the possibility of pinning Ben’s wrist to the shuttle. If Ben chose to see it the way he’s seeing it, who is Poe to disabuse him of that notion?

“They want me dead now, too,” Poe points out. “Don’t forget about that part.”

“I had it under control, you know.” Ben’s hand twirls in the air as he rises to his feet. Dusting himself off, he adds, “At least until you stepped in.”

Poe narrows his eyes. It’s entirely possible Ben is right, but it’s equally possible he’s full of shit. “Did you even know they were there?”

Ben looks away, brushes distractedly at the stray hairs that have blown free of the loose braid that winds from his temple to the nape of his neck. “Not specifically,” Ben answers after a moment, “but someone’s always trying to kill me. Grandmother likes to say that’s a sign you’re doing the right thing when they want to kill you.”

He sounds so proud of that fact.

That’s… well. She’s not wrong about it either, Ben’s grandmother. And if anyone were to know a thing about death threats, it’s Padmé Amidala. But Poe still doesn’t know what to say about it. At least, he doesn’t know what to say that doesn’t condemn Ben and her for not being as right as they could be.

“I can take care of myself,” Ben adds, as though that’s in doubt.

All thoughts of whatever else they could be doing instead of arguing flee Poe’s mind. His stubble prickles at his palm as he scrubs at his jaw. “I didn’t think you couldn’t. I just—reacted. That’s kind of what I do. It’s not a reflection on you.”

Poe glances back toward the closed door of Ben’s suite. They’re probably safe here. If they were smart, they’d just call security and have done with it. They’d probably do something if Ben whines about it and lines their pocket a little bit. And now that Poe’s thinking about it, where’s Ben’s security in all of this?

Ben flushes anew and looks away. “I sent them away,” he admits, more quickly than Poe would have under the circumstances. “Look, it doesn’t matter, right? I have you, don’t I?”

Poe snorts, not quite derisive, and way more pleased by the thought than he has any right to be. “Yeah, for all the good it’s doing you.” But this is getting out of hand. He shouldn’t feel so accomplished. Not even half an hour ago, he hated the guy’s guts. “Okay. Let’s just get out of here before we completely blow that lead we bought ourselves. Rally your guards from wherever you sent them off to and have them meet us at your ship. That sound reasonable?”

Rolling a shoulder, Ben nods and climbs into the passenger’s side. Before Poe can ask him what he’s doing, he tosses the keys at Poe. The smile he offers Poe is a little crooked, a little shy, and it’s more trouble than it’s worth to pretend Poe’s not beyond ecstatic to see it. Catching the keys easily, he hops into the driver’s side and starts the ignition.

The engine hums, clean and warm.

Perfect.

It’s not difficult at all to slip into the lackadaisical traffic, a fact Poe both appreciates and doesn’t. There’s no artistry needed to merge into his chosen skylane. It’s not like Coruscant or Denon or any of the true ecumenopolises of the galaxy. These skylanes are free and clear and Poe’s got a good feeling that their tails won’t be following them this way.

If they do, at least Poe and Ben will be aware of it. 

“You’re not half bad,” Poe offers finally after Ben points out the correct ship in the spaceport. “For a government stooge.”

Laughing, dark with amusement, he says, “Is that what you think I am?”

Poe has to admit, too, there aren’t a lot of politicians who would put up with being called a stooge. Not after being shot at anyway. “I think I want to know if you’ll have better luck getting the sky patrols to care about your plight than shooting up a gaming floor managed to rouse the casino police.”

“Does it even matter,” Ben says. “Seriously, what’s the point? You’re telling me the great Poe Dameron can’t outfly a barely competent Amaxine hired gun?”

Poe startles, realizing all at once that he hadn’t actually introduced himself to Ben and Ben has no reason to know who he is or recognize him. He fights very hard to avoid feeling supremely pleased with himself. He also fails disastrously. “I—when you put it that way, I guess you’re right. I really am the great Poe Dameron.”

“I see your reputation for arrogance is also accurate.”

Glancing back just to make sure there aren’t any barely competent Amaxines behind them, Poe takes the opportunity to toss a wink at Ben. “Is it really arrogance when I can back it up?”

“Mmm,” is all Ben says, staring ahead rather determinedly. But there’s an amused hook caught in the corner of his mouth and Poe knows he’s got him. It makes him want to do something stupid, like turn a barrel roll as he leans over to kiss the amusement right off of Ben’s lips. “I think you finally managed to lose them. I don’t sense anything.”

“So you knew the whole time?”

“I knew enough.”

Poe frowns. He can’t say he regrets what he did, because he’s not. Not entirely. “I’m sorry,” he settles on, gruff. The word ‘sorry’ has always sat awkwardly on his tongue. Life’s too short for apologies. “Hell of an inconvenience.”

“It’s not so bad.” Ben picks at his trousers and brushes them down. “I don’t like Canto Bight anyway. Besides, we could spin this to our advantage. That casino owes me big time now. And I’m sure the Resistance could use a boost in the press.”

Gritting his teeth, Poe shakes his head. His hands tighten on the steering column. “No, man. That’s not why I did it.”

“Even so.”

They lapse into silence after that. Though it’s less awkward than it could be, Poe still wishes he was better at small talk. The higher he climbs the chain of command, the more out of practice he gets. Sure, he’s got his friends and Black Squadron, the folks back on base, but he’s so used to everything being about work that he’s got nothing to say.

And discussing the Resistance with Ben Amidala just sounds like a terrible idea, the kind of idea that’ll end with Poe being pushed out of the shuttle for going on a grandiose, self-righteous tirade. Something Poe reluctantly has to accept is something Ben doesn’t deserve.

It’s not his job to join up even if his mother is General Amidala. Even if Poe wishes he would. Even if Poe really wishes he would, having spent a rather interesting evening getting to know him.

He’d be an asset.

More than that, Poe thinks he’d be fun to have around.

It’s a stupid admission to make, though he only makes it to himself. The truth of the matter is he’s felt less lonely in the last few hours than he’s felt in a long, long time and he’d like to hang onto that feeling. That, he knows, is also not Ben’s problem, so he clamps it down as best he can.

As they approach the spaceport, Ben’s ship grows more and more obvious. It stands out even amongst the elite’s best efforts at good taste and luxury ship design. Sleek and chrome, it looks like something out of an Old Republic pulp holonovel. Somehow it manages to be both ostentatious and the very opposite, toned down compared to the glittering behemoths surrounding it. Poe likes it immediately even though his own battered ship is parked not so very far away.

Once the shuttle is docked, they will have no reason not to part ways.

Poe refuses to regret that fact. It would be ridiculously stupid to let the reality of the situation get to him.

If Ben feels the same way about it, Poe sure as hell can’t tell.

He still can’t tell even once the shuttle is securely in place.

Climbing out of the shuttle at the same time as Ben, he stuffs his hands into his pockets and watches as the shuttle retreats into the bay, a gleaming hatch falling into place once it is securely inside the ship. Ben’s got his arms crossed, but he’s watching Poe closely, giving nothing away.

“Well, uh,” Poe says and clears his throat. “That was fun.”

Before, Ben had shown at least a modicum of amusement at Poe’s expense. Now he’s… Poe’s not sure what he is. Possibly happy to be done with this. Poe wouldn’t have been able to blame him if that’s the case.

Poe’s happy the getting chased by goons part is done anyway.

“You have a strange definition of fun,” Ben says after a moment’s thought.

“I’ve been shot at a lot in my time,” Poe answers, “and by better marksmen than these guys were.”

Ben nods, considering, like he’s genuinely listening to what Poe’s saying even though it’s nothing special, neither clever nor particularly interesting. Must be his politician’s face. As far as it goes, it’s a good one. Probably something he picked up from his grandmother. From everything Poe’s gathered about her, she’s great at making people feel heard, too. “Makes sense.”

“Well,” Poe says again, perfectly aware he’s well on his way to openly babbling. Taking a few steps back, he tips his head in the direction where his own ship is. “Maybe I’ll see you around, Senator.”

He gets a few more steps along before Ben follows, eating the distance with longer strides. “Wait,” he says, but before Poe can do anything, Ben’s got hold of Poe’s arm and he’s pulling him forward and into a kiss that should come as more of a surprise than it does.

Instead of surprise, all Poe can think is, _hell yes, about time_.

His hands fist in Ben’s tunic, pull him closer as Ben’s own brush against Poe’s cheeks and cradle his jaw. He could stand here all evening if Ben were to let him, if circumstances would allow it.

But they won’t. And Poe knows it. As nice as this is—and it is very nice, Ben’s lips are as clever as his words—as much as he would like to keep indulging his own needs and wants, there are more important things at stake here. 

Ben’s life amongst them.

His fist opens over Ben’s chest, palm spreading to touch as much of Ben as he can reach. It’s not enough. 

Poe is so very screwed. 

It’s harder than it should be to push him away. 

Even harder when Ben smiles sadly and draws him into one last, brief touch of their mouths. 

“We do care,” Ben says, mouth barely an inch from Poe’s. Honestly, Poe’s not entirely sure what he means. For a moment, the entirety of his attention is on the fan of Ben’s eyelashes as his gaze moves across Poe’s face. “I know you don’t think so, but we do, my grandmother and I.”

If nothing else, he believes that now. Thoroughly. Truly. “I do think so.”

“That’s good,” Ben says. “Tell my mother I’ll make sure she gets that shipment of weapons she sent you for.”

“How did you know?” But of course Poe knows how. He waves Ben’s answer off. “I’ll tell her.” Inclining his head, he turns and begins striding toward his own ship. “Thank you, Senator.”

“Hey, Poe,” Ben calls once Poe’s halfway across the tarmac. “I’ll definitely be seeing you again.”

A grin breaks out across Poe’s face. “There’s nothing I’d like more.”

And though Poe knows there are no guarantees in life, he feels as certain of the truth of Ben’s words as he’s felt about anything in his life.

If nothing else, there are worse ways to end an unsuccessful mission.


End file.
